


how to raise a tiger

by fireblazie



Series: raise a tiger verse [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe, Domestic Fluff, Family, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 00:33:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9467471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: “You’re the only one he has left,” the social worker says from behind his cluttered desk, desperate and urgent. But Viktor’s eyes are drawn solely to the small boy crouched in the corner of the room, bright orange hoodie thrown over his head. He meets Viktor’s gaze squarely, unblinking."I've only just turned twenty," Viktor says.—In which Viktor acquires legal guardianship of Yuri Plisetsky. (Or: five times Yuri glared at Viktor, and one time he almost smiled.)(Russian translationhere!)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [counterheist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/gifts), [kevystel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel/gifts).



> This is for [counterheist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/counterheist/) and [kevystel](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kevystel), who always let me yell at them about my many many Feelings.
> 
> Unbeta'd, so mistakes are all mine.

**_I._**

 

“You’re the only one he has left,” the social worker says from behind his cluttered desk, desperate and urgent. But Viktor’s eyes are drawn solely to the small boy crouched in the corner of the room, bright orange hoodie thrown over his head. He meets Viktor’s gaze squarely, unblinking. 

“I’ve only just turned twenty,” Viktor says, thinking of his sparsely furnished apartment and even emptier fridge. _Milk,_ he remembers, _the milk’s gone bad._

“If you don’t, he’ll go into the system,” the social worker tells him, as if that’s supposed to make Viktor want to take in a distant cousin he’s only met twice before.

“I—” Viktor begins, and falls short. He turns to face the boy—his _cousin_ , he forces himself to think—and pastes an apologetic smile on his face. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t take you in. I can hardly take care of myself. You’re much better off—”

“Shut up,” his cousin—Yuri, his mind supplies belatedly—snarls. Little Yura from Moscow, the youngest cousin he used to hear about in passing, back when he had parents to tell him about distant family members that lived thousands of miles away. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anyone.” His green eyes are fierce and bright with bubbling anger. “I’ll get by just fine.”

The social worker makes an abortive movement, but Viktor’s smile grows wider and more genuine. “And how will you do that? How old are you? Six?”

“I’m _eight,_ ” Yuri says indignantly, and he is so full of righteous fury that Viktor feels something inside him light up in response.

“Come live with me,” he says, then, ignoring the surprised exhalation from the social worker. “I can’t cook, and we’ll more than likely drive each other up the wall, but I do have a dog.”

Yuri stuffs his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. Turns away so that his bangs hide his face. “Hate dogs,” he mutters.

“Is that a no?” Viktor asks, tilting his head to study him. 

“No,” Yuri says snidely, and plops down next to him in a rickety office chair that creaks ominously when he spins on it. Feeling the weight of Viktor’s gaze on him, he turns to him with a glare. “What’re you looking at?”

Viktor tries, and fails to hide a smile. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

 

 

 

**_II._ **

Viktor is bored, bored, bored, and doesn’t understand why he has to be at this party, anyway. He’s _thirteen_ , he’s practically an adult, he ought to be out doing better, more interesting things, instead of sitting around with a bunch of adults as they coo over the new baby. Viktor doesn’t have a lot of experience with babies, but they sound awfully fragile, and he doesn’t really feel like going near anything with something called a _soft spot_ on its head.

Though, he grudgingly admits, his cousin doesn’t _look_ fragile. He’s perched on his mother’s lap, sucking furiously on his own thumb as he stares down the rest of the room in challenge. The adults—not that many of them; they’re a small family, with only his parents, aunt, and uncle in the room to attend the one-year birthday party—think it’s the best thing they’ve ever seen. Quite frankly, Viktor would rather peel potatoes.

“Viten’ka,” his mother says suddenly, “don’t you want to hold the baby?”

Viktor blinks at her. She laughs, and on her other side, his father does too.

“He won’t bite,” he quips, as he takes the baby from Viktor’s aunt and settles him gingerly in Viktor’s arms.

“Are you sure,” Viktor says flatly as his cousin turns his neck to level him with an unimpressed glare, thumb still in his mouth.

“Oh, Viten’ka, he likes you!” his aunt exclaims delightedly as Viktor begins an impromptu staring contest with the baby. “Yurochka usually doesn’t sit so quietly with someone he’s only just met.”

“I see,” Viktor says, still a little unnerved. Do babies always glare so much? He attempts to shift the baby on his lap into a more comfortable position, but Yuri decides he’s had enough of Viktor, throwing all of his weight forward and nearly falling off of Viktor’s lap.

Viktor lets out a sharp gasp and wraps both arms around Yuri’s pudgy belly, breathing out a sigh of relief as he secures Yuri back onto his lap. He accidentally gets a whiff of baby shampoo, and he decides it's not altogether unpleasant.

Yuri squirms again, and Viktor adjusts him so that they’re face-to-face. Yuri looks at him, startled, and Viktor can’t help but feel a warm rush of affection for him, at least in that one moment. Yuri scrunches up his face in a grimace and Viktor winces. _Please don’t cry_ , he prays, _pleaseplease—_

Well. Yuri’s not crying.

Viktor kinds of wants to, though.

His mother picks Yuri up, laughing quietly at him as Viktor stares in horrified dismay at the stain on his shirt. A stain comprised of baby vomit, stomach juices and curdled breast milk.

It is at that moment that Viktor decides he is never having children.

  

 

**_III._ **

Los Angeles is unapologetically sunny.

Viktor exits LAX with a pair of sunglasses perched _just so_ on his nose, pulling his designer luggage behind him. The pet carrier in his arms is a solid weight, and Makkachin yips pitifully, yearning to run freely on concrete. Viktor makes absentminded shushing noises, and Yuri follows him, dragging his own tiger-printed suitcases out of the airport and into clear blue skies and blinding sunshine. He takes one look at the palm trees that line the boulevard and scoffs.

“Why’d you want to move here anyway?” he mutters as they climb into the back of the car Viktor’s driver had led them to. Viktor taps his seatbelt meaningfully, and watches as Yuri rolls his eyes and snaps the buckle into place. 

Viktor hands the driver their new address on a purple sticky note before settling back in the leather seats. He lets Makkachin out of the carrier and snuggles into his fur. It smells a little stale, much like the airplane cabin they’d been stuck in for fourteen hours, even if it had been first-class. 

He watches the scenery as they drive by: the rolling hills and palm trees, something like delight bubbling between his ribs.

“You didn’t answer me,” Yuri says after a few minutes of silence. 

“Hm?” Viktor turns to face him.

“I asked you a question!” Yuri snaps, whirling around to pin him with a glare. It’s an impressive glare from someone so small, as Yuri’s glares usually are, but Viktor’s had nearly four years to get used to them, and he likes to think he’s built up a fairly solid immunity.

“Oh,” Viktor hums, “I don’t know. Time for a change, I guess.”

“A change,” Yuri echoes dubiously. “You call going halfway across the world just because you felt like it—a _change_.”

“You didn’t have to come with,” Viktor says, effortlessly cruel. “You could have stayed.”

Yuri, eleven-years-and-three-months, clenches his jaw and draws his sweater more tightly around his small frame. It’s eighty-five degrees out, the dashboard display says. Fahrenheit, he'll have to get used to that. Viktor reaches to fiddle with the air conditioning knob until a blast of cool air hits the back seats. Yuri relaxes minutely, but says nothing. 

“It was—” Viktor begins, fumbling. He rests his chin on top of Makkachin’s back. Yuri shifts in his seat, waiting. “It just—hm. Got too cold, after a while.”

Yuri snorts, dismissive, and jams his earphones into his ears. They pass the rest of the drive without attempting conversation again.

“Well?” Viktor asks, once the driver has dropped them off at their new condo. Makkachin is already exploring, sniffing at various nooks and crannies. The apartment is flooded with natural light, with floor-to-ceiling windows that provide them with an impressive view of downtown L.A. It had come fully furnished, and looks like something out of a designer catalog. It doesn’t feel quite like home, but Viktor has never had any illusions about that. “What do you think?”

Yuri flicks his hair—it’s growing long, Viktor notes absently, probably time for a hair cut—over his shoulders.

“Too warm,” he spits out, rolling his tiger-printed suitcases loudly into his room.

 

 

**_IV._ **

“I want to take ice-skating lessons,” Yuri says, apropos of nothing. 

Viktor blinks at him over his mug of coffee. Viktor has a caffeine problem, he will readily admit, and often needs at least two cups in the morning before he vaguely resembles a functioning human being. “I’m sorry?” 

Yuri rolls his eyes spectacularly. “Ice-skating lessons,” he says.

Viktor blinks, again. “How very Russian of you,” he says, and Yuri flips him off. Viktor chuckles into his mug before settling it down onto the granite counter with a _clink._ “Well, I don’t see why not. Why don’t we look around for some—”

“Already picked one,” Yuri mutters, sliding his phone across the counter. Viktor picks it up and scrolls through the web page. _Ice Castle Yu-topia,_ it proudly proclaims in bright colors across the top of the screen. Contrary to its name, the façade of the building looks like any other building in downtown L.A, though there is a statue of a traditional castle out front. It doesn’t look terribly impressive, and Viktor levels Yuri with a questioning stare.

“This?” he says, brandishing the phone at him.

Yuri swipes his phone back, glaring. “I went there a couple of days ago, okay,” he says defensively. “It was—nice.”

Distantly, Viktor wonders if he ought to keep a closer eye on Yuri’s after-school activities, but figures that if he brings it up he’ll only get an earful. “Well, okay. Why don’t we go today? We can sign you up, maybe do a little skating while we’re there. I wonder if it’ll be busy on a Saturday.”

“It’ll be fine,” Yuri mumbles, pocketing his phone and heading to the bathroom to get ready. Viktor watches him go with a considering expression on his face. Well. It’s healthy for young boys to have hobbies, or so he’s heard. He’d taken a few ice-skating lessons himself, though it had never gone anywhere.

An hour later and they’re standing in front of nondescript sign that says _Ice Castle Yu-topia_ , which looks just like it did on the website, old and a little bit weary. But Yuri walks in with a determined set to his shoulders, and Viktor follows him to the front.

“You’re back,” a girl wearing a navy tracksuit greets Yuri warmly from where she’s re-shelving ice skates.

Yuri jabs a thumb in Viktor’s direction. “I want to sign up for lessons,” he says. “He’s paying.”

“Yes,” Viktor agrees with good humor. “I am his financier.”

The employee—Yuuko, her name tag says—laughs as she retrieves the necessary paperwork. “Here you go,” she says, handing them to Viktor with a clipboard and blue pen. “Let me know if you have any questions. You can pay as you go, or pay for a month’s worth of lessons at a discounted price. Oh, and you know what—there’s actually a lesson going on right now, if you’d like to observe?" 

“Sure, that would—” Viktor trails off as Yuri makes a beeline for the rink, a light flush on his face. Curiosity piqued, Viktor leaves Yuuko with a passing smile, paperwork tucked in the crook of his elbow as he ventures inside. Yuri’s stopped by the entrance, watching with an intense focus that Viktor’s only seen him devote to his Xbox.

“You’re doing great!” A voice enthuses, and the flush on Yuri’s face rises. Viktor swings around to the source of the voice: a man who looks to be in his late teens, holding onto a little boy’s hands as he leads him around the rink. His black hair curls around his ears, and his glasses are in danger of slipping entirely off his nose. “Okay, Minami, I’m going to let go in three—two—one—” He releases his grip on the boy, skating backwards slowly, ready to catch his student should he stumble and fall. Viktor catches himself holding his breath: Minami lasts on his own for about ten seconds before he lurches forward, only for the instructor to catch him and hold him steady.

“That was good!” he reassures him, and turns to the other three children in the group. Triplet girls, it seems to Viktor. “Tell him he did great!”

The girls do as they’re told, and their teacher pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, turning towards the door as he does so. He catches Viktor’s, and then Yuri’s eyes. He waves. “Hey, Yurio!”

Yuri’s eyes widen in shock. Viktor, helplessly amused, makes a mental note to ask him about the nickname later. He barely stops himself from laughing out loud as Yuri tosses his hood over his head and discreetly positions himself behind Viktor, hidden from view.

The instructor’s face falls—and it’s quite a charming face, Viktor notes—but he gamely returns his attention to his lesson. Objectively, Viktor can see the appeal. He is handsome, and tall, though not as tall as Viktor, and possesses a leanly muscular build, though it's mostly hidden underneath his black UCLA sweater. He moves gracefully across the ice, always quick to offer a hand to the children, who look at him with stars in their eyes. It’s not, Viktor thinks gleefully, at all unlike the look on Yuri’s face. 

“This place is _nice_ , huh,” he says, not at all being subtle about watching the muscles in the instructor’s thighs clench as he bends and lifts one of the young girls above his head. She shrieks in delight, and his low, throaty chuckle joins in as he twirls her once, then twice, before setting her gently back down on the ice. 

“Oh, _very_ nice,” Viktor murmurs, as the instructor looks up and accidentally makes eye contact with him. Viktor allows himself to smirk, slowly, and is delighted by the way the instructor turns a deep, rosy red. He’s a tad worried because he doesn’t think human beings are supposed to turn quite that shade of color, but it’s awfully becoming on him. Viktor’s grin widens as the instructor topples backwards and lands on his ass. “Yura, Yura, tell me his name.”

Yuri lets out a strangled choking noise. “You—no—OH MY GOD,” he enunciates, staring at him with an impressive combination of horror and hatred. “No— _no._ You can’t come back here, you are the actual _worst_ , you are so embarrassing, you—I HATE YOU,” he declares, before spinning on his heel and stomping off.

Viktor watches him go, and tries not to laugh. He mostly succeeds. He turns back to the rink, where the instructor is determinedly avoiding all eye contact, focusing solely on his students. Viktor shrugs and goes back to the front desk, where he finishes the paperwork and writes a check for a month’s worth of lessons. 

“It was lovely to meet you,” Viktor tells Yuuko as she files away their papers. “And, ah—out of curiosity, what is the name of that skating instructor?”

“Oh, you mean Yuuri?” She pronounces it a little differently, the way a native speaker would. “He’s so great with kids, isn’t he? Those were my girls he was teaching in there. Yurio seemed quite taken with him, too.”

“Yuuri,” Viktor repeats, trying to say it the way Yuuko did. Then the latter part of her statement registers, and he laughs. “Oh, yes. Yurio?”

“Oh!” Yuuko laughs, a little sheepish. “We were having trouble differentiating, so we decided to give him a nickname. I hope you don’t mind. Yurio griped a lot about it, but I don’t think he hates it as much as he says he does.”

“No, no,” Viktor says thoughtfully. “His bark is most often worse than his bite. Did you see where he went, by the way?”

Yuuko hums, considering. “The ice-cream shop down the street, I think,” she says, and Viktor waves at her in gratitude as he ventures in that direction.

Sure enough, Yuri’s sitting on an orange swivel chair, angrily eating two scoops of rocky road in a waffle cone. Viktor settles in the chair across from him.

“I have a question for you,” he begins, quiet and somber. Yuri raises an eyebrow as he bites into a chunk of cone. “And I want you to be one-hundred percent honest with me. Okay?”

Yuri shrugs.

Viktor leans in conspiratorially. “Do you think Yuuri would give me private lessons?”

The glare Yuri shoots him could level mountains, Viktor thinks fondly. “ _UGH_ ,” Yuri hisses eloquently, and throws his ice cream cone in Viktor’s face before stalking out of the shop.

 

 

**_V._ **

 

Otabek is an interesting boy.

He takes ice-skating lessons at Yu-topia as well (and one day, Viktor will have to ask Yuuri about that name), but has progressed to the intermediate level. Since the intermediate classes take place right as the beginner classes end, Viktor sometimes catches glimpses of him warming up on the ice as he arrives to pick Yuri up. It’s not difficult—he’s the tallest of the group, and often skates with an expression of steely determination, so different from the looks of pure glee the other skaters wear when they zip across the ice. 

Today, Phichit is teaching the beginners, and he’s doing a frankly fantastic impression of a duck flapping around on the ice, drawing giggles from some of the younger crowd. Yuri, predictably, looks unimpressed, arms crossed over his chest.

But then, distinctly _unpredictably,_ Yuri perks up, and crosses the rink to the other end. Viktor squints: it’s Otabek, just arrived, sitting on the front row, lacing up his skates. They’re too far away for Viktor to hear anything, but it’s obvious Yuri is enjoying his company, chattering away. Viktor can’t help but chuckle. Yuri usually isn’t the talkative one in conversations, but he seems to be the one in this pair, with Otabek making few comments in between.

“I know, I was surprised, too.” Yuuri approaches him with a quiet huff of amusement. Viktor greets him with a warm grin, and enjoys the way the tips of Yuuri’s ears go pink. “They went to get ice cream the other day after the lesson and Lutz started going on about Otabek kidnapping their fairy.”

“I’m sure Yura loved that.” Viktor can just imagine. “He, er—hasn’t caused any property damage, has he?”

Yuuri laughs, shaking his head. “He likes them more than he lets on,” he says, shrugging. “He’s funny like that. Screams, pitches a fit. Glares at everyone, like he’s daring them to try and talk to him. But when you get down to it, he’s really a sweet kid.” He pauses. “I had a cat like that, once.”

Viktor feels himself rapidly falling more and more in love. “You understand him quite well,” he manages.

“I like him,” Yuuri says. “He’s a good kid, and a good skater.”

“I’m glad,” Viktor says. “I don’t think I could ever date someone my cat doesn’t approve of.”

“Your cat?” Yuuri blinks in confusion, and it’s kind of amazingly adorable. “And d—date?” Viktor leans in closer, and Yuuri turns beet-red and darts away, helicopter arms swinging around and around.

“OI, GET AWAY FROM MY TEACHER,” Yuri bellows, racing across the ice. Otabek watches him go, taking in the scenario with a detached eye.

Yuuri laughs nervously. “Good job out there, Yurio.” Yuri preens at the praise as he hops off the ice, and Yuuri beckons to Otabek across the rink. “I’m, uh. Going to get started. See you next week!”

Viktor watches him go. For far too long, probably, judging by the sharp kick Yuri aims towards his shins.

“Yura, did you make a friend?” Viktor asks, reverting to Russian specifically for this conversation. Yuri fixes him with a fierce scowl as he slips orange guards onto his skates.

“You leave Beka alone, you—”

“ _Beka_?” Viktor trills delightedly, and Yuri blanches.

“Shut _up_ ,” he hisses, stomping out to the locker room to change out of his skates and grab his backpack. Viktor pulls out his phone to make a notation in a document titled _Yurochka’s Milestones!!!_ Underneath **FIRST CRUSH: YUURI KATSUKI** and **FIRST ICE-SKATING FALL: JULY 25,** he lovingly types in, **FIRST FRIEND: OTABEK ALTIN.**

“Are we going or what?” Yuri barks, backpack slung over one shoulder. Viktor quickly saves his note and slips his phone back into his pocket.

“Coming,” Viktor chirps.

 

 

**_+1_ **

 

Viktor and Yuuri get married when Yuri is sixteen.

The ceremony is an embarrassment to humankind, and Yuri has chosen to deliberately erase all traces of it from his memory, but some things stick around, like the fucking _dance-off_ and the way Viktor and Yuuri had decided to perform their first dance as a married couple to some dramatic old Italian aria, in a perfectly choreographed piece that had led everyone to tears.

(Everyone except Yuri, that is, because he would never cry over something so pathetic as a _first dance_ , photographic evidence be damned.)

He has also deliberately chosen to forget about the pole-dancing, oh god, the pole-dancing. “ _I AM A MINOR,”_ he had screeched at the reception, “ _DOES NOBODY CARE—”_ until Otabek, bless him, had tugged on his arm and led him to his bike where they had driven to the nearest Ben  & Jerry’s to eat their weight in ice-cream.

(Otabek had looked really good in his suit, too, and he also kind of always looks really good on his bike, and maybe sometimes the only thing Yuri really looks forward to is Otabek coming home from college on the weekends so they can spend some time at Yu-topia, and maybe that’s a thing Yuri needs to address one of these days, but it is clearly not this day—)

The point is.

The point is that now Yuri has, for all intents and purposes, not one but _two_ parental figures in his life, who like to nag at him and tell him to do his homework and to clean his room and it is—not as awful as some might think.

Because as disgusting as Viktor and Yuuri are, they are, undeniably, in love, and Yuri knows enough of the world to realize how rare that is to come by. Sees it in the way they lean into each other unconsciously as they watch shitty reality TV shows late at night, sees it in the way they have Conversations in the form of pointed looks and raised eyebrows without ever saying a word.

Sees it in the way they navigate around each other in the mornings, when the two of them are barely awake and can only stumble around the kitchen, waiting pathetically for the coffee to finish brewing. Sees it when they try to learn a new dish in the kitchen: Yuuri teaching Viktor how to make katsudon, or Viktor showing him how to make pirozhki, with Yuri taunting him in the background, Makkachin in his lap.  

Today he wakes up late—it’s a Sunday, sue him—and breakfast is two hours old on the table: cold eggs and bread, and a mug of lukewarm coffee. Viktor and Yuuri are laughing quietly at the sink, wearing matching aprons and kitchen gloves. Makkachin is by the open window, drinking in the sunlight, tail thumping lazily on the wooden floor. Yuri remembers thinking he’d never have this again, eight years old and frozen in fear at a social worker’s office.

Viktor turns around and sees him standing there. He raises a soapy glove. “Yura,” he says, smiling warmly. “Good morning!”

Yuri allows the edges of his lips to curl up, ever so slightly. “Morning,” he says, and goes to join them in the kitchen.

 

 

**FIN**

**Author's Note:**

> this entire fic came about because i decided i wanted single parental figure viktor fic 
> 
> also sometimes russian diminutives confuse me but i did my best based on various internet sources; lmk if i did it wrong
> 
> also, [this](https://ammeja.tumblr.com/post/156283908735/domestic-victuuri) gorgeous piece of art Spoke to me basically kickstarted the whole thing, tbh
> 
> [come say hi](https://fireblazie.tumblr.com) on tumblr if you like!
> 
> **ETA: this fic now exists in [russian](https://ficbook.net/readfic/5194118) thanks to [@llonelysenpaii](http://llonelysenpaii.tumblr.com/); check it out! :D


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